Stroker
by Seacook
Summary: Sequel to "A Sin To Tell A Lie?" Jon and Trip accidently discover Malcolm's secret but their plans to have a bit of fun with him about it are spoiled by an alien attack. Rated T for language. COMPLETE. (05/09/14: After posting the final chapter I realized that I had left a few loose threads, so I have retooled the very end of that chapter and reposted it...)
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: This is a sequel to "A Sin To Tell A Lie", which was a post-Minefield story that was originally intended as a one-shot. Interest in a follow-up was expressed; though I didn't plan on doing one, after some thought the idea appealed to me. If you haven't read the first story this one might not make sense. (Heck, it might not make sense even if you have read its predecessor.) It starts off with humor but takes a more dramatic, borderline angsty turn after a while. The meaning of the title will become known pretty early on; as far as bowling averages, I really know next to nothing about that sort of thing so found a number that I thought sounded good without being totally over-the-top._

_Aside from this being post-__Minefield__ as well, I haven't really got a set timeframe in mind for it. _

_All standard disclaimers apply: do not own, property of Paramount, not for profit, solely for entertainment, yadda yadda yadda..._

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"Have I or have I not watched _dozens_ of your water polo vids?" Tucker asked Archer over breakfast.

Jon nodded. "Well…yeah…but I thought you _enjoyed_ watching them."

"I _do_ enjoy them, and I appreciate you invitin' me to watch them with you. Now _I've_ got some vids I wanna share with _you_."

"Yeah, but…_bowling?_ Where's the excitement in _bowling_?"

"Oh, c'mon, Jon…I admit it's not the same kinda thrill as you'd get from water polo or rugby, but it's got its own charms nonetheless. Have you ever watched a game, or played one?"

Archer gave him a 'you're kidding me, right?' look. "I guess I just don't see the appeal."

"Ya know, I'm no expert on bowling, but just 'cuz the players don't chase after a ball or splash around in a swimmin' pool doesn't mean the game's not enjoyable. I've got vids of some old tournaments that my folks gave me ages ago, before we even left Earth, an' I never got around to watchin' them. So tell ya what…how 'bout I bring 'em by tonight, we pick one at random, an' watch _one_ game straight through. If you don't enjoy it, we'll spend the rest of the night watchin' water polo an' I'll never mention bowling again. _And_," he decided to sweeten the pot, "I'll bring the beer for the next four polo matches. But if ya _do_ like it, drinks are on _you_ for our next four sports-night get-togethers. Plus I get to pick what we watch. Might be water polo, might be bowling, maybe croquet, Aussie football or curling. Depends on what kinda mood I'm in."

Jon thought it over then nodded with a chuckle, looking forward to Trip providing the beer for a while. "Sounds reasonable enough. Okay, you're on."

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"Who comes up with these _names_?" Jon pondered at the end of the third game, opening another beer. "_'Alley Cats'_? _'Spare Me'_?" So far his only regret of the evening was that he'd read the pun-filled list of team names. Fortunately he'd taken time earlier in the day to read a brief breakdown of the game to better understand what he'd be watching, so most of the puns made at least a _little_ sense even if some were god-awful. He still hadn't purged _'Bowl Movements' _from his mind.

"Ya gotta admit, _'The Bowling Stones'_ has a nice ring to it. An' don't forget _'Guttersnipes'_." Picking up the padd from his lap he pulled up the information about the next game. "Next one up is '_Kingpins_ versus _Strike Force_'. Want me to cue it up...or do ya wanna switch to polo?"

"_'Strike Force'_, huh? Was kinda looking forward to _'Ball-barians_ versus _Alleygators'_," he joked. Waving his beer toward the screen he urged, "Lay on, Macduff."

Returning Archer's smile Trip started the playback then took another look at Jon. "Wanna skip the team rosters this time?"

"Nah. I like to know a little about who's playing." Settling back in their seats both men relaxed, sipping their beers and noshing on pretzels as they watched the names, photos, and tidbits of information pop onto the screen accompanied by the commentators taking turns reading over each player's biographical highlights. Halfway through the _'Strike Force'_ roster a photo came onto the screen that made both men choke on their beers and sit bolt upright. Trip paused the vid and they both stared at the image on the screen before staring mutely at each other, then slowly back to the screen, then at each other again.

No way.

Couldn't be.

_Could_ it?

Jon silently motioned for Trip to start it up again and both men riveted their attention to the screen. The female commentator's voice read through the information:

_"...The youngest member of 'Strike Force', this English-born player—nicknamed 'Deadeye' by his teammates—has secured a well-earned reputation as a force to be reckoned with. A stroker with a 259 average—"_

Trip paused it again, consulted his padd for a few moments, and looked at Jon sheepishly. "Wanted to find out what a stroker was. Somebody who's smooth with his approach and release," he explained before restarting the vid.

_"—with a 269 average, Malcolm Reed has proven himself a valuable asset to the team."_

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Not for the first time since the start of his shift, Malcolm felt eyes on him. With a practiced, casual air he glanced around the bridge (again) to find the captain looking at him (again). No—not merely looking but rather _studying_ him. Reed looked back at his console as he tried to figure out what he'd done to garner such interest from his CO. All reports and duty rosters had been turned in on time (of course), weapons systems were at peak efficiency (at last), he'd arrived promptly for his shift (naturally), and for a pleasant change of pace the day had gone along without a single menacing alien species trying to blow them up (so far).

It had been worse when Trip had been there earlier. While Captain Archer was at least _attempting_ to be subtle, the engineer had fairly gaped at him as though he were a new form of alien life. When ignoring him had failed to break the commander of staring Malcolm had at last simply stared back impassively until Trip broke eye contact and excused himself, heading back to Engineering.

So…had he done something wrong? Thinking it over he decided not—he would have been called into the captain's Ready Room if that were the case. Captain Archer might have a more of a relaxed command style but that didn't mean he wouldn't hand out a right and proper dressing-down if he felt it was warranted. But if it wasn't some form of misconduct or dereliction of duty, what was drawing so much of the captain's attention to him? It was a tad unnerving, so much so that he was actually grateful when a light on his console blinked for attention.

Checking the readout, he saw that it was a text message from the Armoury asking for him to stop by at his convenience to go over some readings. Nothing urgent, just results of some scans and diagnostics he'd had his team run. _"Perhaps you could stop by after your Bridge shift, sir?"_ the message suggested. Malcolm breathed silent prayers of thanks to the patron saints of armouries and munitions before looking up at Archer. "Captain, I've gotten a message from the Armoury. They need me to go over some diagnostic results with them. Permission to leave the Bridge, sir?"

"Sure...no problem," Archer nodded to him, seeming to return most of his attention to the star-filled viewscreen as the lieutenant stepped into the turbolift. Once they had closed he risked a quick look at the lift doors. Nope...try as he might (and despite having seen the video evidence with his own eyes) he couldn't quite envision Malcolm in a bowling shirt. Somehow, they were going to have to change that.

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By the time he'd finished in the Armoury his shift was over, so Malcolm decided to head to the Mess Hall to celebrate the diagnostic results: all defensive systems were _still_ at peak efficiency and looked to stay that way owning to the latest battery of tweaks and tinkering his staff had diligently performed. He had it on good authority that Chef had tried out a new pineapple recipe; since his allergy shots were up-to-date pineapple rice casserole seemed a perfect way to mark the occasion.

Settling into his seat with his casserole and a tall glass of water he felt eyes upon him and spared a quick look up. Commander Tucker was approaching with his own food-laden tray. He'd gone for some of the casserole, too—along with, it seemed, a little bit of everything else. Reed silently marveled at the man's appetite. How _did_ he stay so trim when he seemed to always pack in so much food? The commander either had a very stringent exercise regimen that he kept extremely well hidden or he had the metabolism of a hummingbird.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," Malcolm replied with an almost perky tone in his voice. Though he hadn't forgotten the commander's enigmatic behavior on the Bridge, his time in the Armoury had put him in good spirits. His mood was so good, in fact, that he decided to inquire about the incident. "So, Commandah," he ventured, "was there something amiss on the Bridge earlier?"

"Not as far as I know," Trip replied lightly, genuinely oblivious to Reed's meaning. "Why? You notice something going on?"

"You could say that. For some reason I seemed to attract a great deal more attention than usual, both from you and the captain. As far as I can tell I did nothing out of the ordinary, I didn't have a great gob of spinach lodged between my teeth, and didn't show up for my shift in the buff, so I'm not quite sure why you seemed so fascinated by me."

_Oh crap._ "Well, you _are_ a facinatin' fella," Trip joked, then paused before continuing. "Nah, I guess I was just a little out of focus this morning—was watching vids with th' captain last night and we kinda made a late night of it. Kinda skipped breakfast this morning, too, and I guess my mornin' coffee didn't wake me up as much as I'd hoped it would. Sorry if it came across as something else."

Keeping an impassive expression on his face, Malcolm weighed the explanation and found it wanting. A late night with the captain watching water polo and drinking beer followed by skipping breakfast might explain the small mountain of food on the commander's plate but didn't account for the oddness on the bridge this morning. "No harm done," he shrugged, deciding to let it go for now. "I was just curious."

Trip smiled, nodding in silent agreement. If there was one thing Malcolm Reed was, it was curious...or, as Granny Tucker would have phrased it, 'one odd duck.'

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"What about just inviting him for Sports Night and running the vids?" Trip suggested from his seat in the Captain's Mess, passing the pitcher of orange juice to Jon. "He won't say no if you invite him, 'cuz you're the captain."

Archer doubtfully quirked his head slightly to one side, taking the pitcher and pouring another glass of juice. "Malcolm is _Malcolm_, Trip. He'd be nervous being invited precisely _because_ I'm the captain, and I'm not sure he'd loosen up enough to even see what's on the screen. _You_ know what he's like." He whacked off another piece of his waffle and tucked it in his mouth.

"C'mon, you don't think he'd be all _that_ nervous, do ya?"

Jon shook his head, stifling a chuckle as he swallowed. "Trip, I swear, you should've seen him the first—and _last_—time I had him in here for breakfast. He was like a kid that had been called to the principal's office. Didn't even _consider_ the possibility that the only reason he was here was to simply have _breakfast_ and maybe socialize a little. That's why I've never invited him again, because the experience was so damned _miserable_ for him. I'm sure not gonna have him feeling like he's been ordered to come to my quarters to watch sports. Besides, about the only thing I learned about him from that breakfast was that he 'doesn't much follow sports'." He left the things he'd learned _after_ that breakfast unspoken.

"Yeah...guess yer right," Trip agreed as he stabbed another sausage with his fork. "He probably _would_ get his tea bags in a twist, wouldn't he?" Carving at the sausage he didn't notice the look slowly coming over his friend's face until he looked up to see why Jon had fallen silent. A slow smile of realization was coming over the other man's face as he stared at the far wall. "Hey, Jon...you okay?" Seeing the smile widen further Trip finally caught the meaning in it—Jon had come up with something. "Whatcha got?"

Eyes finally meeting Trip's, Jon stifled another chuckle. "I've just realized something about Malcolm, Trip. He told me a fib."

"He _what_?"

"A fib, a prevarication...a lie. Malcolm _lied_ to me. About the sports. He let on like he all but hated sports, while all along..." Jon sank back in his chair, still smiling. "I'll be damned. I didn't suppose he was capable of lying to _anyone_, let alone a superior officer."

A grin spread over Trip's face, though a far more mischievous one than Archer's. "Y'know...I don't think you should let that slide, Jon. Can't have the man gettin' away with fibbin' to his captain. No sir. Gotta maintain proper discipline. That man has _got_ to be _punished_."

"Quite right," the mischief glittered in his own eyes as Archer agreed. "Y'know, in light of _this_ little development, I think maybe I'll reschedule that breakfast after all."

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_'Damn and bloody hell,'_ Malcolm sputtered internally as he read the message on his computer screen that evening. Breakfast with the captain the day after tomorrow. As time had gone by he'd gratefully assumed that Captain Archer had forgotten his promise to reschedule; something, it seemed, had quite inconveniently jogged the man's memory. With supreme effort Malcolm refrained from bashing his head repeatedly into his desktop. Although, he considered for a second, if he held off doing that until tomorrow evening and did it with sufficient force he _could_ wind up in Sickbay with a valid medical excuse to skip the breakfast. He could always say he'd tripped and fallen into the desk. After a few seconds he nixed that plan—wouldn't do to damage Starfleet property, after all. Besides, he wasn't so far gone that he'd prefer Sickbay to the Captain's Mess...not yet, anyhow. He could save that course of action as a last resort.

Besides, the way things usually went, something else was bound to come along and bollux up the works without any help from him. Though hopefully not another alien mine field, he was fairly sure the fates would intervene in some manner; for better or worse they almost always did. In the meantime he'd say a few extra prayers to his favorite patron saints that somehow, some way, that damned breakfast wouldn't happen.

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"So, Malcolm," Archer smiled as he seasoned his eggs, "how are things going? Everything running smoothly in the Armoury, I presume?"

"Of course, sir...unless you've heard something to the contrary?" He shot a quick, uncertain glance at Trip before meeting Archer's gaze. Though not certain which of the 9 circles of hell he was currently consigned to, he knew he was in one of them. Wasn't it bad enough having the captain trying to be all chummy without having an audience to boot? It didn't help that the engineer was failing miserably at stifling a smirk, succeeding only when he took time to stuff a chunk of food in his mouth. It seemed that Gabriel Possenti, Barbara, Terence of Pesaro, Erasmus, and all the rest had either not heard his pleas or had declined to intervene.

"No, no...nothing like that. Just that I know sometimes the equipment gets a little temperamental." He allowed a long pause while pouring his orange juice before continuing. "Y'know, Malcolm, I've been doing a little thinking about the crew's recreation time. I know things haven't been _overly_ dull out here, but when we have lulls in the action I worry that the crew might be getting bored with the usual activities. Movie Night is popular, and I know everyone makes use of the gym, but I'm looking for something to help keep folks stimulated...you know, some kind of group activities. Something to help cement crew cohesion."

Still sitting ramrod straight Malcolm poked nervously at the uneaten food on his plate. "I'm not certain I follow, sir...has there been some trouble with the crew working together? No one from _my_ department, I hope. If so just tell me who they are and I'll be happy to—"

"Steady, Malcolm," Trip interrupted. "No one from _any_ department is actin' up...it's just that the captain an' I got talkin' the other day about having somethin' fun for th' crew ta do, maybe as groups. Somethin' a little more physical than Movie Night, that is, an' we're just looking for a few ideas. Figured you might have a suggestion or two in that department." He and Archer watched as Malcolm pondered the possibilities, amused that the man was genuinely clueless.

"Well," Reed innocently offered after some thought, "I suppose we could start a mandatory calisthenics program. Since people are already making use of the gym, it makes a certain amount of sense to go that route, give them a more regimented activity."

Somehow the senior officers were able to keep straight faces, though Trip desperately wanted to bounce a slice of his toast off Malcolm's forehead. "Calisthenics?" the engineer scoffed. "_Seriously_?"

Archer held up a restraining hand. "Easy, Trip...you know, Malcolm, that might not be a bad idea. But we'e looking for something optional, just for fun. What _we_ were thinking was something more along the lines of a...team activity." He paused for effect. "You know, some sort of...sport. And we were hoping to get some input from you. We've already discounted water polo as unfeasible," he hastened to add.

_'What the bloody hell are they playing at?' _Malcolm kept his features properly schooled as he replied, his tone innocent and respectful. "You know, sir, as I mentioned at our last breakfast, I'm not much into sports, but I _do_ believe it would be a good idea to start some sort of program along those lines. It _would_ be beneficial to the health and physical fitness of the crew as well as being stimulating and entertaining. Is there some particular area that you need my help with?"

"As a matter of fact," Archer began to reply, "I thought maybe you could—" The communication panel on the wall chirped at him. _Damn...just when I was reeling him in._ Grudgingly he went to the panel and tapped the control. "Archer here." _'Probably another Minshara-class planet or gaseous anomaly, or something else that could've waited five minutes. Should have told T'Pol to hold off on anything like that until we were done here.'_

"Captain," the Vulcan's cool voice came back, "your presence is required on the bridge. An unidentified vessel is rapidly approaching us, with shields and weapons at the ready."

The three men hesitated only an instant before Archer hit the door control and all three bolted from the room.

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_'You know,'_ Malcolm silently address those saints he'd spoken to a few days earlier as another barrage shook the ship, _'when I asked for your help in getting me out of that damnable breakfast, this isn't __quite__ what I had in mind.'_ "Hull plating holding," he reported before letting off another volley of his own; he frowned at the results. "We're barely scratching them—whatever kind of shielding they've got is only slightly weakened."

There had been no hails from their attackers, no response to _their_ attempts to communicate, and T'Pol had been unable to identify the configuration of the aggressor's ship; they had simply swooped in and opened fire. Though only slightly larger than _Enterprise_ the alien vessel had obviously been designed with speed, maneuverability, and aggression in mind. Fortunately for them the attackers didn't seem to have _too_ much of an upper hand as far as weapons technology was concerned so they were presently at a stalemate, each shot draining the other's shielding only minimally. Still, Malcolm knew that they couldn't keep at it indefinitely—eventually one or the other would run out of either ammunition or luck. If only he could get even the _beginnings_ of a shield breach going..._'Give me __some__thing to work with here, for pity's sake...'_ "Incoming," he warned an instant before the blast came into view on the main viewscreen. From the looks of the scanner readings this weapons' burst looked more potent, more ominous than the others. The ship bucked in violent protest and Reed's breath caught as he saw the massive drain on the hull plating. _'You bastards were holding out on me, weren't you?'_ he silently smirked as he tried to transfer additional power to the plating. As he sought a viable area to target the scanner readout caught his eye, revealing a potential vunerable area. Or at least something passing for vunerable; he'd take what he could get. He answered the newest barrage with volleys from the phase cannons, hammering the beams of energy into the sweet spot. He smiled openly as he saw his marksmanship rewarded with a near collapse of their opponent's shielding in that area. He drove in a final volley of torpedoes and cannon fire directly on top of the weakened shields for added emphasis. As he watched the ship turn away he had to remind himself to not count his chickens just yet; they _could_ be changing position to take another run at them.

Commander Tucker's voice momentarily filled the air. "Tucker to the Bridge. Capt'n, we're gettin' our teeth shook loose down here—any chance we're gonna chase 'em off soon?"

"Working on it, Trip," Archer shot back. "We'll let you know when the fireworks are over."

The alien ship banked gracefully as it arced away from them, coming in unbelievably fast with weapons bristling as it changed course in an attempt to slip up beneath Enterprise. To his credit Travis began countering the maneuver a heartbeat before Archer ordered "Evasive maneuvers," sparing the ship from most of the barrage, and both vessels found themselves again facing each other. The alien ship nudged slowly closer but showed no signs of firing again.

Before Archer could wonder aloud what they were doing, T'Pol answered the question. "Captain, they have transporters. We've been boarded." She met his eyes. "D deck. They are approaching Engineering." She studied the console for another instant before adding, "Internal sensors have gone offline."

Archer spun to face Malcolm. "Go." As Reed fled the bridge like an angry Rottweiler let off his leash the captain turned to Hoshi. "Warn Trip."

Her fingers flew over the panel. "Bridge to Engineering—intruder alert. They're heading your way."

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Trip grabbed the engineering console to steady himself as the ship rocked again. Once the tremors subsided his fingers flew over the controls in an effort to keep the readings steady. Glancing around the room he saw several small fires, but his team was already working with extinguishers to kill the flames. He thumbed the comm button. "Tucker to the Bridge. Capt'n, we're gettin' our teeth shook loose down here—any chance we're gonna chase 'em off soon?"

He'd hoped for some vague reassurance from the bridge but the reply sounded less than promising. "Working on it, Trip. We'll let you know when the fireworks are over." Despite the inertial dampeners he felt the subtle shifting of the ship as Travis apparently worked some of his navigational magic. Renewing his grip on the console he swore as more sparks showered from several stations.

It took a few seconds for him to realize that the ship was, apparently, no longer being pummeled; he assumed that Malcolm had finally sent their visitors packing. He started for the various stations to check the extent of the damage when Hoshi's voice came over the comm. "Bridge to Engineering—intruder alert. They're heading your way." Hess was already on her way to secure the main door when he gave the order to secure them all; it was fortunate that she'd been so quick. No sooner was the door secured than the intruders reached it. Realizing they'd been thwarted they began firing at the door, perhaps, Trip thought, hoping to cut through.

Of course _now_ he was going to have to apologize to Malcolm—he'd given the Armoury officer some flak about not having space for weapons lockers full of phase pistols in Engineering, but now he was glad to have them. "Weapons!" he ordered urgently. "C'mon, this ain't a drill!" Something else to thank Malcolm for was his insistence upon more than a few run-throughs with the Engineering staff to practice what to do if the need ever did arise for them to defend the ship's engines. "An' remember to watch what yer shootin' at! Don't want Lt. Reed thinking you've been slacking off with yer target practice." _'Also, it would damn well suck if a plasma conduit or an antimatter injector got blown apart by our own weapons' fire.'_

The noises from the other side of the door stopped as suddenly as they'd begun. Trip should have been relieved but found himself growing more uneasy by the second. _'They gave up __awful__ easy.'_ "Everybody stay clear of the door," he warned just before an explosion threw remains of the door through the room.

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It wasn't a loud explosion, but it was ominous nonetheless. It came just before Malcolm and his men rounded the corner; the smoke hadn't even begun to clear yet, so it took an extra second or two for him to make out the helmeted alien forms heading through the breached opening into Engineering. He'd already instructed his men to fire on sight so the few aliens still in the corridor were quickly taken out of commission before they had a chance to react. The others, though...how many had gotten into Engineering?

The sounds of a firefight within the ship's engine room did nothing to help him gauge what they were up against but instead served to make his heart pound a little faster. Part of him feared for the engineer and his staff—after all, they weren't quite adept at close-quarters firefights or hand-to-hand combat—but a greater part of him was eager to mete out an arsekicking of epic proportions against the aliens who had dared invade his domain. If Trip's people could keep the invaders from penetrating too far into the ship's engine room, Reed figured his own men could outflank and rout the beggars with little effort.

Cautiously approaching the door, Malcolm silently directed his men before stealthily positioning himself at the door and peeking into the room. Though they were doing a fair job of holding their own, Trip's people hadn't been able to prevent the eight or ten intruders from scattering throughout the room. Since the engineering crew was doing a better than average job of keeping the boarding party busy the security detail had the advantage of remaining unnoticed as they crept into the room and took up their positions. Malcolm leveled his phase rifle then gave the signal to his men to advance and open fire. As soon as the attackers realized reinforcements had arrived they apparently sent a signal to their ship; their forms shimmered into nothingness as they were transported off the ship. Even those who had been stunned by phase pistols and rifles were beamed away, denying their would-be victims an opportunity to attempt to identify them.

As Trip surveyed the damage and Malcolm dismissed his men Captain Archer entered the room. "How bad is it?"

"Haven't had a chance to go over everything yet," Trip answered, running one hand through his hair as he looked around the room, "but we seem ta be in one piece, more or less. A couple minor injuries, a bunch of scorched circuits...engine's offline so all we've got right now is impulse, but antimatter injectors and plasma conduits are intact...all points considered we're not in too bad a shape." He looked at the captain. "Any idea who they were? They were wearin' some kinda helmets with reflective face shields so we couldn't get a look at their faces."

Jon shook his head. "Their ship's configuration didn't match anything in our databases and they didn't make any attempt at communication, so we haven't got a clue. Guess they figured out we weren't going down without a fight 'cuz they took off as abruptly as they showed up. We'll keep a closer eye on long-range scanners in case they put in another appearance."

As the three men surveyed the room Trip took a moment to study Malcolm. During the firefight he'd risked a few glances at his friend and had been startled at the transformation: the Brit's usually pleasant features had disappeared, replaced by a cold steel mask of indignant determination, eyes glittering with cool, dangerous purpose. It was as if the invasion had been a personal affront against him. Now that the threat was gone Reed's face was almost back to normal, but there were still small traces of troubled concern peeking through. The engineer chalked it up to leftover adrenaline combined with Malcolm's natural tendency to see the cloud behind every silver lining.

"Hey Malcolm," Trip said, "you do nice work. Really sent those guys off with their tails between their legs."

With a nonchalant shrug Reed met Tucker's grin with his trademark small, crooked smile. "We aim to please...though I almost felt as though we were in the way. Your team handled themselves very well."

"Only because of all the drills an' target practice you put 'em through. That paid off big-time today. Plus, you were right about the weapons lockers."

"Of course I was," Malcolm quipped, smile broadening.

The captain noticed that the smile didn't quite reach Reed's eyes. "Something wrong, Malcolm?"

Head canting faintly, Reed considered his answer as the corner of his mouth twitched. This lot already thought he was overly paranoid. Still...there was something nagging at him. "Not quite able to set my mind at ease about it, I suppose. They attack out of nowhere, for no apparent reason, their boarding party successfully breaches Engineering, but then they flee the ship so readily. Why give up so quickly?" He paused, shaking his head with dissatisfaction at the unanswered question. "It was almost too easy."

As if to answer his question the comm chirped. "T'Pol to Engineering."

Trip tapped the comm button on the console nearest him. "Tucker here...go ahead."

"Internal sensors are back online, and have detected two of the aliens in your vicinity. They appear to be in the corridor just outside Engineering, heading toward the starboard cargo bay." The three men bolted for the door, Malcolm successfully slipping into the lead with his phase rifle at the ready.

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As he ran down the corridor Reed allowed himself the luxury of several seconds of mental scolding. _'Should never have assumed that all the ones in the corridor were knocked out, nor that all off the invaders had transported off the ship. Bloody careless, stupid, amateur mistake.'_ He slowed as he approached the turn, putting out his arm to keep the other two back. When one of them—he didn't bother to see who—tried to slip up beside him he again reached out without looking and gave a powerful, silent shove backward that spoke volumes: _'Get __back__ there you Damned Stupid Yank.'_ A quick, cautious peek around the corner told him all he needed to know: they were tinkering with the cargo bay door, placing a small charge on the control panel from the looks of things. He simultaneously slipped silently around the corner and took aim, easily dropping the one closest to him.

The second had other ideas, though. He dashed down the corridor, evading Malcolm's best shots until he came to the next turn and stashed himself around the corner. Malcolm almost smiled with the knowledge that the corridor the alien had taken was a dead end, leading only to a couple of junior officers' quarters (presently unoccupied, he knew, since the officers in question were on duty). Even if the bugger was brazen enough to make a run back out into this corridor, he'd have an airlock to one side of him and an annoyed Tactical Officer on the other. "You've nowhere to go," he advised, taking a few cautious steps toward the alien's hiding spot, "so best just to make things easier on yourself and give up. You won't be harmed," he added for good measure. Of course, if the intruder made it necessary for Malcolm to stun him it would sting like hell...but it wouldn't _harm_ him, so technically, Reed reasoned, he hadn't lied.

The lieutenant was frankly amazed that the alien did indeed step out slowly, hands over his helmet-covered head. Malcolm stepped carefully toward the intruder, still very much aware of the officers behind him, and took two more steps forward before he saw the object in the intruder's hand. The captain hadn't noticed and had just stepped around Reed when the alien gave the small, round object an expert toss in their direction.

Reed didn't even have to think about it—his actions rapid and instinctive, he turned and used the length of the rifle to shove Archer (and, it turned out, Trip, who was right behind the captain) backward with all the strength he had as he shouted, "Grenade!" Tucker and Archer both fell to the floor as Malcolm dropped the rifle and made for the explosive, certain there wasn't time to pitch it out the airlock. He only had time to consider one other option. It had rolled almost all the way to them and both officers gasped as the lieutenant expertly scooped it up and strode away from them. After a few graceful, rapid steps he rolled the device back where it came from. Just as Malcolm started to turn away the grenade exploded squarely between the feet of its very surprised owner. Tucker and Archer hadn't even had a chance to get up, and were still on the floor watching in shock as the force of the explosion sent Reed's body sailing over them. His impact with the deck made a sickening sound, his body rolling several times before coming to a stop. They scrambled to their feet and raced to his unmoving form.

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Seated at the desk in his Ready Room Archer tried to concentrate on the damage reports in front of him, but all he could think about was Malcolm and what had happened in the corridor. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the lieutenant heading for the grenade and throwing it back down the hall. There hadn't been any indication that Reed had even had to think about it—he'd moved as if it was the most natural thing in the world to scoop up a bomb and roll it down the hall like a bowling ball. Neither man had even had time to scream at Malcolm to stop, or even to simply call out his name. Worse than the image of Malcolm with the grenade in hand or even the explosion itself was the image of the man's body being propelled over them, tossed down the corridor like a rag doll, and the sound of him hitting the deck and flopping down the hall. God...it had sounded as if the last vestige of life left in him had been knocked loose and cast aside.

They'd reached him at the same time, both men somehow suppressing the urge to scoop up the injured, unconscious man. All of Trip's attention was on his friend, begging and cajoling him to hold on as they checked for vital signs, put in an urgent call to Sickbay, and tried to stem the worst of the bleeding. Archer had spared a stomach-wrenching look at what was left of the alien's mangled body before summoning Security to deal with the surviving intruder who was still unconscious where Malcolm had dropped him. When Phlox arrived with a medical team they'd stepped back and looked on helplessly as the usually jovial Denobulan grimly set to work, all jocularity left far behind. Jon remembered looking first at Trip's hands then his own, his brain not wanting to register the blood he saw there. When they put Malcolm on the gurney and wordlessly hustled him away both men stood staring at the large patch of blood on the floor at their feet, leaving unsaid what they were both thinking—if Malcolm hadn't acted so quickly and efficiently, the blood of all three men would have been staining the deck.

The captain stood abruptly and began pacing around his office, hoping to purge the memories while knowing that he couldn't. Thankfully the door chime rang. "Come in."

Trip entered, pale and subdued. "Hey, Captain," he said softly, obviously still as stunned as Archer. "Just wanted to let you know we've got warp back. Rest of the repairs should be finished within the hour." Jon acknowledged the news with a silent nod. After a moment Tucker roused the courage to ask, "Any news yet?"

"He's still in surgery, I think. Phlox hasn't called yet, and he said he would as soon as he was done, so..." Swallowing hard, he let the thought trail off. Jon returned to his seat, legs suddenly unwilling to hold him up. "He said there was a lot of shrapnel to deal with, a lot of...damage...so we shouldn't be surprised if it took a while for him to finish."

"God, Jon," Trip whispered, sinking into the other chair, "I can't believe this is happening."

"Yeah...I know."

Both men remained silent a long while before Trip began venting his building anger. "It was so damned _senseless_...we didn't _do_ anything to them, we don't know what they _wanted_, hell, we don't even know who they _were_!"

"I know," Jon agreed meekly. "I haven't even tried to guess what they wanted, and the one we've got in the brig isn't talking...won't even take off his helmet."

"Lemme go down there," the engineer growled. "Betcha _I_ can get that damned helmet offa him an' get him ta talk."

The captain shook his head. "Trip, to tell you the truth right now I don't much _care_ who they are or what they wanted, I just want..." He couldn't say it aloud but knew Trip wanted the same thing. They wanted Malcolm back. They wanted Phlox to call them and say that the lieutenant was out of surgery, doing fine, bitching about being stuck in Sickbay, and asking when could he get out. In short, they wanted to know that everything was going to be back to normal, and that they weren't facing the very real possibility of never again seeing the Brit at his station on the Bridge.

When the comm broke the silence Jon's hand flashed out to answer it, eager for the doctor's report. T'Pol's voice came through instead, momentarily confusing him. "Captain, there is another ship approaching us. Its configuration is similar to that of our attackers but this ship is much larger. They will be here in under two minutes."

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She hadn't been exaggerating when she'd told them it was "much larger": this ship was over three times the size of _Enterprise_. T'Pol's scans showed engines capable of at least Warp 7, shields that phase cannons and torpedoes wouldn't even begin to weaken, and weapons that would likely take out the hull plating and maybe a deck or two with the first shot. The Vulcan had also reported that _Enterprise_ had been thoroughly scanned, which meant that the alien vessel was well aware of their smaller opponent's vulnerabilities. Standing in the middle of the Bridge, the captain reviewed his options. None of them were good. Archer glanced over at Ensign Rossini, seated at the Tactical Station. "Ensign...any idea what they're doing?"

Malcolm had trained the young man well—he almost succeeded in hiding his nervousness as he replied, shaking his head. "So far all they've done is scan us, sir. Their weapons are fully charged and ready, but they haven't locked on to us."

"Mr. Rossini, keep our weapons at the ready as well, but don't lock on to them just yet." Maybe if they took up a similar posture, he thought, the aliens would think twice about taking the first shot. _'Yeah, and maybe Porthos poops rainbows.'_ "Hoshi?" the captain switched his attention to Sato.

She, too, shook her head. "They're not making any attempt to communicate, sir, and they're not responded to our hails."

Still standing, Archer glared at the screen. They couldn't outrun or outshoot the vessel now hanging nose-to-nose with them, and he somehow doubted that even Travis could outmaneuver them. All that left was this damned nerve-wracking, maddening staring contest. Anger born of frustration built within him; he knew there was little if any hope of fending off an assault, but it would be nice to at least know what these people wanted.

A beep from Hoshi's console shattered the tense silence. Rechecking the readings she looked at the captain. "Sir...they're hailing us. Audio only," she added, puzzled.

Archer nodded the silent command for her to open the channel. He made no attempt to mask his ire. "This is Captain Jonathan Ar—"

"You are advised to power down all weapons systems," the other ship's captain interrupted in an artificial-sounding, genderless voice. "Maintain position and prepare to receive a boarding party. Resistance would be imprudent. It is in your best interest to comply." With an audible click the transmission ended.

"Hoshi?" Archer looked to the ensign.

She shook her head. "They've closed the channel.

Reviewing the options one last time as he stared at the alien ship filling the viewscreen, Jon sighed. The risk was too great. "Mr. Rossini...power down all weapons. Travis—"

"Capt'n," Trip broke the silence, indignant at the alien's demands, "tell me we're not gonna just hand the ship over without a fight! There's gotta be _somethin'_—"

"What would you suggest, Commander?" Archer snapped angrily as he spun to face the engineer. "We'd burn up our engines trying to outrun them, and they're more than capable of blowing us to kingdom come if we start shooting." He took a deep breath, trying to slow his hammering heart and rein in his temper. "Trip," he said softly once he'd succeeded, "we were evenly matched against that first ship, and were lucky that almost all the injuries were minor. But against this one? I can't risk any more lives when there's no real chance at fending them off." Sighing, he sank into his chair. "Travis...maintain position."

The oppressive silence that settled over the bridge lasted only a few moments, broken by a page from the doctor. "Sickbay to Captain Archer."

The somber tone in the doctor's voice made Jon's stomach sink. He braced himself for the worse. "Go ahead, Phlox."

"Lieutenant Reed is out of surgery. We were able to remove all the shrapnel but he lost a great deal of blood and is still in critical condition...although I am cautiously optimistic about his recovery I should warn you that over the next couple of hours things could still go either way. Provided his condition improves, you may be able to visit him in a few hours."

Staring impotently at the ship on the viewscreen, Captain Archer shook his head. "Doctor...I think that might be a problem."


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the dense haze clouding his mind Malcolm could hear the doctor's faint, muffled voice. He fought against the darkness, trying to use Phlox's indecipherable, somber chatter as a beacon to home in on, and felt himself failing as the voice grew fainter still. He found this failure wholly unacceptable—how was he supposed to find out what was going on if he kept on like this? He had to keep trying, keep fighting against the murkiness at least long enough to find out what had happened and whether Trip and the captain were safe. Not to mention the uneasy feeling he'd had the entire time they'd been pursuing the invaders down the corridor: would the alien ship return to resume the assault and reclaim those left behind?

He remembered much of what had happened, though it played through his mind like some sort of surreal dream: the attack, the pursuit down the corridor, the false surrender, and the grenade drifting as if in slow motion toward him. No, that wasn't right—it was drifting toward _them_, for Trip and Captain Archer had been behind him until just before the grenade had been lobbed. The silly Yanks had followed him as he'd approached the cornered alien and one of them had, he vaguely recalled, tried twice to step around him, the second attempt coming at just the wrong time. It hadn't registered which man it was but he felt sure it _had_ to have been Archer simply because walking blithely into a hazardous situation was _precisely_ the sort of thing the captain would do. Hell, it was one of the things the man did _best_. How anyone that possessed such a generous amount of carelessness, naiveté, and/or blissful ignorance (seemingly combined with the apparent—though misbegotten—notion that he was bulletproof) had lived so long remained a mystery. _'Damned stupid Yank.'_

Everything that had happened after the grenade left the alien's gloved hand was still hiding in the dark fog presently occupying his brain. That he had been injured was all too obvious, for why else would Phlox not only be in proximity but also be so subdued in his tone? (Though he couldn't understand _what_ the man was saying Reed was certainly familiar enough with the doctor to know that for him to sound so serious, circumstances must indeed be dire.) He hoped against hope that whatever else had happened in that corridor, he'd at least been able to protect the captain from himself and maybe the grenade as well. If the captain and commander had remained unscathed, it was well worth whatever cost he'd incurred.

He was regaining just enough physical sensation to feel the agony begin, and tried to focus on that in hopes of regaining his senses. The sooner he came to the sooner he'd know if Trip, the captain, and the ship were safe. Had he succeeded in protecting them, or had he failed them all? The pain flared mercilessly and he moaned loudly. Or it could have been a couple of shrieked names; he wasn't coherent enough to be certain. Regardless of which it was the doctor seemed to have other ideas about him coming to, and Malcolm felt the dreaded, familiar sensation of a hypospray at his neck. The injection quickly rendered the haze victor over Malcolm's mind and he grudgingly sank back into oblivion.

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Once the drugs took effect and the lieutenant was again unconscious Phlox slid into the chair next to the bed and marveled at his patient. No normal person should have been fighting off the anesthetic so soon after surgery. This man, especially, should not have possessed the strength to do so...not _this_ time, at any rate.

The two of them had grown accustomed to the strange routine that had become normal for them: the lieutenant would get injured or take ill, the doctor would treat him, and the two would do a little dance of wills, with the Human grousing about his treatment either being too uncomfortable or taking too long and the ever-patient, paternal Denobulan, in various and (usually) subtle, good-natured ways, telling him to quit being such a crybaby and stop whining about it. This time, though, had been terrifyingly different.

He knew when he got the call how serious it was even before the captain had said there'd been an explosion. It was easy enough to figure out simply because even when the captain's calls to Sickbay were urgent he didn't scream out the request. Oh, he'd _shout_ upon occasion...that was only natural during a high-stress situation. This, though, had been so much more than a shout, more primal and panicked than Archer had ever sounded; combined with Commander Tucker's equally frightened voice in the background alternately pleading with and swearing at Mr. Reed, Phlox hadn't needed to see his patient to know that this was no mere spike through the leg.

It amazed the doctor that the young man had survived the blast to begin with; that he was still alive when they got him to Sickbay bordered on miraculous. The two times his heart had stopped during surgery almost taxed Phlox's talents beyond their limits, but somehow the Tactical Officer's heart allowed itself to be coaxed back to life. Perhaps part of it had been the doctor's own stubborn refusal to give up; the shrapnel's invasion of his patient's body infuriated him, and he had channeled that fury into his work. But a good deal of the credit for his survival went directly to the resilient lieutenant and his unwillingness to stay dead. Mr. Reed's famed stubborn streak was oft-times annoying but Phlox also found it oddly endearing—the man's tenacity was what made him both a maddening and an excellent patient. Oh, he'd grouse about the discomfort and inconvenience of being treated, but his tenacity drove him to do what he needed to despite the discomfort or inconvenience if only to escape Sickbay and prove the doctor wrong. Some part of the doctor believed it was that same stubbornness that had allowed Malcolm to survive this latest crisis, and he viewed that survival as simply amazing.

Even now the man was _still_ amazing his physician, not only fighting to regain consciousness so soon after surgery but coming so close to succeeding, even managing to speak a few words and names. Still, Mr. Reed wasn't the only one who could wage battle, and the doctor hadn't fought this particular battle this far only to have the lieutenant open his wounds, stress his vital systems to their limit—again—and risk another encounter with death. Oh no. The two of them had come too close to losing the war against shrapnel, shock, and blood loss for Phlox to simply surrender now. There was already too great a chance that they might _still_ lose. As helpful as Malcolm's tenacity had been in the past and could still be in the future, the doctor knew it had to be restrained for the time being.

Sliding his chair closer to the bed Phlox gently gripped his patient's hand. Boarding party or not, he would not concede this battle just yet. He'd grown too fond of this young man to let him go without a fight. Besides, how would he ever discover the meaning of those few faint words Reed had uttered if he let him die? "You're not the only one who can be stubborn, you know," he whispered.

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They stared mutely at the lieutenant's pale, still form wondering why Phlox had summoned them when Malcolm was still unconscious. Though he looked far better than he had the last time they'd seen him all those hours ago, Reed still looked horrible; IV tubes snaking under the blankets, torso swaddled with bandages, left arm strapped to his body to immobilize his dislocated shoulder, bruised, nicked-up facial features totally slack and almost lifeless, his pasty complexion revealing the extent of his blood loss...granted _no_ one looked good in a hospital bed, but neither man could recall ever seeing Malcolm this ashen and sickly-looking. Even having the head of the bed partially elevated didn't help make him look any healthier.

The presence of their guests did nothing to improve the atmosphere. Two of them stood flanking the doors to Sickbay seemingly appraising their surroundings; then again, it was hard to know where they were looking since they were wearing helmets that matched their dark bronze-colored military uniforms. Both of Malcolm's visitors made a concerted effort to ignore the aliens.

_'Prob'ly just as well he's not awake,'_ Trip thought as he stared at his friend. Regardless of their motives, no way was Malcolm going to be happy when he found out about this new batch of aliens coming onboard—hell, they'd be lucky if he didn't have a full-blown stroke when he saw them—so the longer he was oblivious to their presence the better. Even when Phlox returned from his office and bustled over to check Malcolm's vital signs and hang another unit of blood Trip's gaze remained fixed on his friend, searching for any sign of him rousing.

Captain Archer, however, turned his full attention to the Denobulan. "Phlox," he said quietly as the doctor stepped away from Reed's bedside, "I'm not sure why you called us down here when Malcolm hasn't come to yet."

"I apologize, Captain," the doctor replied with all sincerity. "I _should_ have briefed you sooner, but I was a bit distracted by our visitors. I felt it might be better to have you here when he woke rather than waiting for him to regain full consciousness to summon you. He started to rouse shortly after surgery—not long after I notified you that he was out of surgery, in fact—but given his condition at the time it was too dangerous for him to wake, so I sedated him. During that brief period of semi-consciousness he became agitated, attempting to speak and then calling out your names. It seemed obvious that he was concerned about your well-being, so I felt that the first people he should see upon waking are you and Commander Tucker. Additionally," he added with a faint trace of a smile, "having you come in a bit earlier gives me the opportunity to further check the two of you for injuries from the blast, since I didn't really get the chance to do so before. The sedative should be wearing off in the next five or ten minutes...of course you _could_ come back later if you'd rather..." His smile widened as he casually drew his scanner from his pocket and began going over the two men.

The doctor's display of humor—the first they'd witnessed since Phlox had first arrived in the corridor to help Malcolm—helped ease some of their fears. When Phlox was jovial around a patient it was his way of showing that recovery was well underway; his jest that they come back later was his way of letting them know that despite how horrible the lieutenant looked on that bed his chances of survival were, finally, all but assured. Trip relaxed enough to pull up a chair and sit next to the bed, ignoring Phlox's effort to scan him and laying a tender, reassuring hand on his unconscious friend's exposed forearm.

There was an audible gasp from one of the aliens, followed at once by a dressing-down by the second. The voice sounded as if it was being broadcast via a computerized synthesizer; despite the artificial-sounding voice, there was a tone of extreme annoyance in it. "You were warned of the potential behavior of these people. Your reaction is unacceptable. Leave now." The first alien made a noise as if to object but was interrupted immediately. "Your conduct is unprofessional. If you leave now no official report will be made. If you linger I will inform the captain of your breach of etiquette. Another has been summoned to replace you." With a respectful (or perhaps defeated) bow of its head the alien guard slipped out the door.

Trip made a point of ignoring them, remaining focused upon his friend as though simply staring at him long enough would have a curative effect. Archer, however, silently watched the exchange with interest. From their dealings with them thus far, he knew that communications between members of the boarding party could easily be carried out without being overheard. That this dressing-down had been heard was obviously intentional—for whatever reasons the senior officer apparently felt it necessary to make the scolding as public as possible. It might have been intended to shame the guard into doing better the next time, or perhaps it was an attempt to put _them_ at ease by allowing them to be privy to it. Deciding he didn't much care, Archer joined Phlox at Reed's bedside.

"When will he wake?" the ranking alien asked abruptly as he approached the bed. "My captain requires an update. I must also confirm the proper form of address."

Phlox turned to face their visitor, a slight but sincere smile on his face. "As I explained to you _and_ your captain when you first came to Sickbay several hours ago, it is vital to the lieutenant's recovery that he be allowed to awaken naturally. However, it shouldn't be much longer. Perhaps another ten minutes before he begins to show signs of consciousness, but he will doubtless be at least mildly disoriented for another few minutes after that. And you may introduce him to your captain," Phlox added politely, "as Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. He is the ship's Chief Tactical Officer." Seemingly satisfied with the answer the alien nodded acknowledgement then returned to his place near the door.

Phlox watched him resume his vigil, silently enjoying the moment. When they'd first come onboard the aliens had desperately wanted him to rouse his patient, all but ordering him to wake the lieutenant. Enraged at the demand he'd refused quite adamantly, ending his refusal with the firm assurance that the only way they would wake Mr. Reed prematurely was 'over my cold, dead Denobulan body.' As a conscious tribute to his patient he'd added, 'And if you don't like it you may bloody well go straight to hell.' His wrathful countenance and forceful refusal had yielded the desired effect, with the visitors meekly, politely requesting to be notified when the lieutenant awoke before withdrawing from Sickbay. Only later, once the Denobulan had calmed down, had this same visitor ventured back to Sickbay for a more friendly discussion of Mr. Reed's condition. It had turned into an educational and mostly pleasant conversation, so much so that Phlox almost regretted his earlier outburst. Almost. He _never_ regretted standing his ground when it came to a patient's welfare.

The Denobulan's estimate wasn't too far off, though it was closer to fifteen minutes before Malcolm stirred. Eyelids twitching faintly, he gave a soft moan and shifted slightly in the bed. When the movement caused him to gasp and wince in pain Phlox drew a hypospray from his pocket and dosed him. Eyes still closed, Reed sighed. "Doctor...how am I ever going to wake up," he asked with a tired, slurred voice, "if you keep knocking me out?"

Phlox chuckled. "Have no fear, Mr. Reed. That was merely a mild analgesic. You'll probably still feel a little sleepy for a few minutes due to the previous injection...best to just lie still until you feel a little more clear-headed."

"Capital idea," his patient agreed groggily, feeling not only sore as hell but also more than a little hung over. What the hell did that man put in those hyposprays? As the pain rapidly receded he decided that whatever was in the medication was well worth the hangover.

He recalled feeling an urgency in waking the last time he'd begun to rouse but was having trouble recalling why it had seemed so important to wake up. Sleeping seemed a much better idea. It took a few seconds for him to even remember how he'd landed in Sickbay to begin with; the memory of the grenade—including what he'd done with it—suddenly slipped into place and his eyes snapped open. "The captain...Commander Tucker...are they all right?" he asked as he tried to sit up. Despite the hypospray, the sudden movement sent pain screaming through him and Malcolm's breath caught sharply.

Quickly standing, Trip intercepted him. "Whoa there, Lootenant," he said softly as he pushed Malcolm back down. "Some part of 'just lie still' yer havin' trouble understandin'?"

Momentarily bewildered, Reed gaped at the commander. "Commander...were you injured? Is the captain safe? And the ship—how much damage did the grenade do? Did the attackers return?"

Archer stepped closer so Reed could see him. "We're both fine, Malcolm, thanks to you. And," he added, uncomfortable at the memory of it, "the grenade didn't do much damage to the corridor." Unbidden, the image of the unconscious lieutenant, the bloodstained floor, and the fragmented alien copse leapt to mind. No, damage to the _corridor_ hadn't been the main goal of the invader. He shoved the memory aside as much as he could. "Seems it was an antipersonnel device, not meant to do structural damage."

"Antipersonnel," Reed pondered. "That usually means a lot of shrapnel."

"Indeed it did," Phlox frowned. "And you collected far more than your fair share. You're quite fortunate that you weren't much closer to the blast."

Malcolm considered that for a moment. "The alien...is he...?"

Jon laid a hand on Reed's shoulder. "He died in the explosion. And the one you stunned is in the Brig." He almost smiled as he watched Malcolm close his eyes and visibly relax; then he remembered their guest standing at the door. _'Time to bite the bullet.'_ "Malcolm, there's something else you need to know. After you were injured..."

Opening his eyes again, Malcolm studied the captain—it was out of character for the man to be so nervous. Looking at Trip he saw that his friend, too, seemed uneasy.

"After you were injured," Archer repeated, "another ship approached us. They..."

Reed's gaze shifted between the two men until Trip's eyes drifted to the doors. He followed his friend's gaze and spotted the helmeted alien standing there. He almost jumped out of the bed, the last vestiges of grogginess washed away by adrenaline. "Bloody hell! Sir...we've been _boarded_?!"

"Easy does it, Mal," Trip tried to calm him as all three men tried to keep him in the bed. "It's okay—they had us worried at first, too, but they're the _good_ guys. Honest, Malcolm, they came ta help us."

Easing back onto the bed the lieutenant looked disbelievingly at them. Trip nodded first, then Archer and finally Phlox, and Malcolm decided that the world might well have gone mad during his absence. He had a hard enough time trusting people to begin with, but trusting people who so thoroughly hid themselves was almost more than he could bring himself to do. So much could be read in a person's facial features, their body language, and especially their eyes. Had he been able to see the eyes of the one with the grenade he might have realized the danger sooner. But the careful way they seemed to carry themselves, giving away little or nothing in the way of body language, combined with those damned helmets and face shields...these people might as well be made of granite for all he could read of them. Hell, it wasn't even possible to discern their _genders_—provided they had such a thing—let alone their intentions. They shot up and invaded his ship and tried to blow up two senior officers, not to mention damned near succeeding in blowing _him_ up, and now he was expected to throw caution to the wind and blindly believe that they were here to _help_?

"It's true, Malcolm," Archer assured him. "They showed up about the time you came out of surgery. At first we thought they were working with the ones who attacked us, but it turns out they've been looking for that other ship. They sent a boarding party here to help with any repairs while their ship went on ahead to catch our attackers." He motioned toward their visitor. "This is Dr. Cam, chief medical officer of the Ka'ar ship _Heeba_. He came in case we needed help treating casualties. Their captain came aboard, too, and will be here shortly for what they consider a proper introduction."

Deciding that their discussion of him warranted closer scrutiny as well as his input, the alien approached the bed. "Your captain is correct. My captain is presently tending to other duties but wishes to more properly offer our apologies and gratitude." His artificial-sounding voice did little to help sway Reed, and he seemed to realize it. "Regrettably, we did not arrive in time to prevent either the attack or the injuries you sustained. Additionally, it seems that when we first contacted your captain we were considered...brusque...in our manner, which caused unintended and regrettable apprehension in your people. Time was of the essence, however, as the raiders we have been searching for were using the time to escape. It was more expedient to simply not allow the opportunity for discussion and to instead announce our intention to board. Once we were on board your ship, the _Heeba_ could resume the pursuit and we would have more time to explain our purpose." The helmeted head turned toward Phlox. "Fortunately there was one among you who is familiar with our species."

"Well, I've had a few brief encounters at medical conventions," Phlox clarified modestly, "but I'd never seen one of their ships, so I had no idea we were dealing with the Ka'ar until I met this boarding party." He didn't mention having seen the corpse in the corridor; the blast had done enough damage to make a visual identification of the species impossible and the severity of the lieutenant's injuries hadn't allowed time for a detailed analysis of the alien's body. "Even then I wasn't entirely sure, since at the conventions they wore civilian garb rather than military uniforms."

"Civilian garb?" Malcolm asked. "So...you know what their faces look like?"

"Oh heavens, no," Phlox beamed. "The Ka'ar are an extremely private species and don't believe in openly displaying themselves even to one another, except in rare circumstances or to one's lovers or spouses. Not even their hands or faces are ever publicly exposed. The Ka'ar I encountered wore lovely robes and what I was told were ceremonial masks, since the conventions were deemed to be special occasions. As I recall, their everyday garments consist either of a gown similar to a garment once worn on Earth that I think was called a burka, or plainer robes and masks. Which one they wear is purely a matter of personal preference."

"We do realize, however," the Ka'ar doctor said, "that it is common for many species to display at least some their flesh publicly, and sometimes to even come into direct contact with one another's flesh."

"Wait a minute," Trip interrupted. "You mean you don't _touch_ each other either?"

"Skin-on-skin contact is...not done publicly," Cam tried to clarify, turning to face Trip. "Viewing of another's skin and direct physical contact, except in instances of medical necessity, are considered to be erotic, sensual experiences...things to be enjoyed privately. However, we recognize that not all beings believe as we do, and we endeavor to not pass judgment upon them for what is to them normal public behavior. I apologize for the guard's unseemly reaction to your earlier display. His conduct was unprofessional and so I dismissed him at once. I hope you were not offended by his outburst."

Seeing confusion on the engineer's face Phlox elaborated. "I believe the doctor is referring to the display of concern you showed to the lieutenant, when you placed your hand on his arm." Dr. Cam nodded before returning to his place near the door.

Malcolm let himself relax slightly as he mentally replayed images of the intruders and tallied them against the alien before him. Though the helmets were indeed _similar_ to the ones these people wore, upon further consideration they'd been mismatched and far more battered and ill-kept. This man's bronze helmet and matching face shield were both polished to a high sheen and bore what he assumed were rank insignia. The garb of their attackers had been disheveled and almost careless, as if they's simply thrown on whatever hand-me-down slacks and jackets had been at hand; the crisply kept and meticulous clothes the doctor wore was obviously a uniform, even matching the color of the helmet. And the first boarding party had certainly not had any interest in explaining their actions, whereas this lot seemed eager to have their side of things known. And hadn't this fellow said something about apologies? It seemed unlikely that hostiles would bother with apologies.

Okay...maybe it _was_ possible these were 'the good guys'...but still, dealing with people so thoroughly faceless and unreadable was damned disquieting. He tensed as a second alien entered and took up a position on the opposite side of the doorway from Dr. Cam. Why would 'the good guys' feel the need to post a guard in Sickbay? Studying them, he thought it seemed that they were talking to one another. His best guess was that the helmets contained a communications system that allowed them to chat with one another without being overheard. After a minute or so the new arrival stood at attention next to the door while the Ka'ar doctor once again approached them.

"The replacement honor guard has arrived, and our captain is ready to enter," he told Phlox politely. "Unless that is unacceptable. If your patient requires further rest the captain has agreed to wait."

Smiling amiably, Phlox gave a slight nod. "I have no objections, but I believe the decision should be Mr. Reed's." He faced Malcolm. "Lieutenant...do you feel up to having another visitor?" Seeing the uncertainty on his patient's face he quietly added, "Their captain has been requesting an audience with you since they first arrived."

_'Requesting an audience? With me? And the one at the door is an honor guard?'_ Malcolm was certainly familiar with being summoned to a superior's office, but this sounded as if they thought _he_ was some sort of dignitary or person of importance. Well, alien or not, it felt wrong to make a captain wait needlessly. He stole quick glances at Trip and Captain Archer, who had remained standing on either side of the head of his bed. "I, uh...I suppose so." Suddenly feeling decidedly under-dressed he tugged at the blanket with his good hand, trying to cover at least some of his chest; Phlox dutifully reached down and helped drape it over him diagonally, leaving his good arm exposed. With a satisfied nod the doctor stepped away.

The guard at the door snapped to attention, facing straight ahead, with the Ka'ar doctor facing the door and coming to attention at the foot of Malcolm's bed. Within a few seconds the doors opened and a third Ka'ar entered. This one stood over half a head taller than the others, wearing a uniform and helmet the color of newly polished brass rather than the bronze color of the others. Pausing next to the guard, the alien captain offered a faint nod to the crewman. "Wait outside. See to it that we are not disturbed." Returning the gesture the guard exited Sickbay. Striding up to the Ka'ar doctor the captain again nodded; the gesture was returned, and the doctor turned to face Malcolm.

"May I present Captain Vendar of the Ka'ar Defense Corp vessel _Heeba_." Turning back to Vendar, he continued the introduction. "Captain, this is Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, Chief Tactical Officer of the _Enterprise_." Introductions completed, he stepped away from the foot of the bed and took up a position two steps behind his captain.

"Lt. Reed," Vendar began, with the same synthetic-sounding voice as Cam. "I have been told that during the attack on this vessel, you were the one manning the weapons systems and returning fire. Is this accurate?"

Malcolm stiffened, unsure what direction this conversation was going to take. "Yes," he replied neutrally.

The alien stepped to the side of the bed. "I have also been told that, when one of the raiders threw an explosive toward you and your senior officers, you picked up the explosive and threw it back without hesitation or concern for your own safety, protecting your officers at great risk to yourself. This is also accurate?"

"Yes."

Shoulders sagging, Captain Vendar gave a long sigh then fell silent for several moments, head bowed. "I offer you my most heartfelt apologies, Lt. Reed," the Ka'ar officer finally continued, straightening up and again looking at Malcolm. "Unfortunately, not all Ka'ar are law-abiding people. Those who attacked this ship are one of several groups of raiders who make their living by preying upon other vessels, showing no regard for their victims. We have been charged with the task of pursuing and capturing the most dangerous of them, but they have been far more elusive than we had anticipated. Whenever we thought we were coming close to catching them they would make good their escape, often by causing greater damage and injuries to their targets. They know we are obligated to assist their victims and while we try to help those they have attacked, they flee.

"The two raiders left behind on your ship were not left by accident but by design. If the raiders are in the midst of a takeover and discover we are approaching, at least 2 of their crew remain behind to sabotage the ship while the rest of them flee. If you had not succeeded in stopping them, they would likely have attempted to access some critical area of the ship to target...life support and Engineering are two of their favorite targets, but if they cannot successfully attack those areas they will try for a hull breach. If not for the damage you were able to inflict upon their ship during your battle with them, they might have lingered long enough to either successfully take over your ship or do far more damage before they fled. Just before coming to speak with you, I received word from the _Heeba_ that the criminals have been overtaken and captured. Their capture was made possible in large part by the damage done by you to their vessel during the attack on _Enterprise_. The Ka'ar government conveys its sincerest apologies for the injuries you sustained, and wishes to make restitution to all of you for this regrettable incident."

Vendar turned to face Archer. "My vessel will be returning in several hours...with your permission, we will take custody of the surviving raider at that time so that he can be tried with his fellow pirates. We will also take possession of the remains of the dead one so that we may determine their identity. I am hopeful that while waiting for the _Heeba_ to arrive, you and I can discuss what form of restitution your people would find acceptable. I realize that our manner in dealing with you has been curt at times, and we have doubtless seemed rude and perhaps even antisocial, and for that I apologize. This mission has been most stressful for all of us, as has being away from our ship, and I fear that stress was displayed in our behavior toward all of you. I assure you that we are a generous people. Speaking of generosity, there is also," Vendar added, attention turning back to Malcolm, "the matter of the reward."

"Reward?" Malcolm asked, confused.

"Our government has long offered a reward for aid in the capture of these criminals...since you are the one who disabled their ship, they have deemed you to be the rightful recipient of that reward."

"But...but I was just doing my job," Reed objected. "A reward isn't necessary."

"Necessary or not," Vendar countered, "it has already been authorized. We will be able to turn it over to you once my ship returns, and you can do with it what you wish."

Phlox cleared his throat, cutting off any further discussion of the matter. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I believe we should let Mr. Reed rest now. Perhaps you can return for another visit in a few hours?" He braced himself for objections from Vendar or even Dr. Cam.

Instead the Ka'ar captain nodded slowly. "Of course you are correct. There will be time for another visit before I return to my ship. However, there is a custom among these people that I believe would be best for me to observe. I have discussed it with my doctor, and he believes it would be...acceptable."

Despite the synthetic voice of the aliens, Malcolm was sure he caught a hint of reluctance in the captain's voice. He saw Dr. Cam's head dip slightly before the Ka'ar physician stepped to the foot of the bed, turned his back to them and faced the door. Though impossible to tell for certain, it almost seemed like embarrassment, as if Cam had walked in on someone disrobing. Then Vendar stepped alongside the bed, hand awkwardly extended toward him. Slowly his own hand reached out but he stopped, remembering what Dr. Cam had told them earlier. "One moment, please," he stalled, pulling his hand away from the Ka'ar. "Phlox, could you come here?" He motioned the doctor closer and Phlox obligingly bent close so Malcolm could whisper in his ear.

When Reed finished, Phlox straightened with a smile. "I believe that is an excellent idea. Captain Vendar, if you could wait just one moment, Mr. Reed has made a suggestion that might make this custom easier for you." Bustling to the equipment cart near the exam table, he opened a drawer and pulled something out then returned to Malcolm's side. "Here we are," he chirped, holding up an exam glove. Once he finished helping the lieutenant pull it on he stepped back and politely addressed the Ka'ar captain. "We know how your people feel about direct contact, and he didn't want you to be uncomfortable. You're not the only ones who try to respect the customs and sensitivities of others."

Vendar stood stock-still for a long moment, seemingly staring at Malcolm, then slowly bowed deeply. "Your display of courtesy and understanding is very much appreciated. I also know something of your people's beliefs and customs, and have been told that many of you find it important to be able to see the faces of those you deal with. If I understand it correctly, your people find it unsettling to not be able to see another's eyes. Perhaps this will help." The face shield slid open, revealing a face almost entirely obscured by a cloth mask similar to a ski mask. Large, bright turquoise eyes set in deep burgundy colored skin gazed back at him. "On behalf of my government and my crew, I thank you for your assistance in capturing the raiders," the captain said, again extending a hand toward Reed. "Now that they are in custody we should be able to locate their fellow raiders and put an end to their attacks."

Malcolm realised that the alien's voice, no longer distorted by the helmet's communication system, had a distinctly feminine tenor to it. "You're quite welcome," he replied as he shook her hand, silently admiring her firm grip. He thought he saw something in her eyes akin to the twinkle of an awkward smile but the face shield slid shut before he could appraise it further. Both seemed to realize at the same time that their hands had perhaps been touching for a few seconds too long and they broke contact.

Stepping back Vendar bowed slightly. "I look forward to visiting with you again before we leave...but your doctor is quite correct. We should let you rest now." She turned to Archer. "With your permission, Captain Archer, we will return to the guest quarters you have provided for us so that we can rest as well. It has been a stressful time for all of us."

"Yes, it has," Jon agreed. "If you'll contact me when you're ready, we can have that meeting you mentioned. Although I don't think restitution is necessary, I believe we might come to some sort of agreement about an exchange of information. We'd like to learn more about this area as well as your people, if you think that would be acceptable."

"Of course." With another polite bow to all of them Captain Vendar strode toward the exit, Dr. Cam falling into step beside her.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Grudgingly letting Phlox help him out of his sling and his dress uniform, Malcolm slipped into his pajamas as quickly as his aching body would allow: bad enough that he'd needed help disrobing, but damned if he was going to allow himself to be dressed by another person. He wasn't _that_ far gone. Once he'd finished he gingerly put his left arm back in the sling, opened the privacy curtains, returned to the biobed and slid under the blankets.

"I still don't see why I can't go back to my quarters," he complained. "I'm perfectly capable of resting there."

"Because you're still recovering from having been _blown up_," Phlox quipped, helping straighten the bedclothes over the man. "There are any number of complications that could still arise, so I need to closely monitor you for at least a couple more days. Of course, if you are _intent_ upon staying in your quarters—"

"I _am_," Reed insisted.

"—then I can gather a few medical supplies and stay there _with_ you."

Malcolm groaned, partially from his exertions but mostly out of exasperation. "That would rather defeat the purpose of my _leaving_."

Phlox grinned. "I know." It was good to have things getting back to normal. "Of course, it might speed up your recovery a bit if you'd let me use—"

"No," Reed grimaced. "No eels. No eels, slugs, blood worms, or any of the rest of your creepy-crawlies, thank you very much."

"Very well," the doctor shrugged. Yes, things were definitely getting back to normal. All that was needed now was for him to catch Reed trying to sneak back to his quarters to know that everything was entirely back to rights. "Now then, you've had quite an outing so I want you to get some rest. Do you need anything for the pain? Or something to help you sleep?"

He opened his mouth to refuse but thought better of it: it had been a busy morning, and perhaps he _had_ overdone a bit. "Maybe just a little something for the pain," he admitted; he wasn't entirely convinced that the doctor wouldn't take advantage of a drug-induced nap and start sticking members of his medicinal menagerie on—or in—his slumbering patient. Noting the faint smirk on the doctor's face, Malcolm sighed. "All right, I admit it. I _probably_ should have left the reception early, as you suggested." He flinched as Phlox used the hypospray. Why were those things always so damned _cold_? "But Captain Archer wanted to give our visitors a proper send-off, and wanted his senior officers there. And _I_ wanted to be there, even if it _did_ mean wearing my dress uniform. After all, their captain was willing to let me look at part of her face despite any discomfort it brought her—how could I turn around and snub her by not attending, or slipping out early just because I'm still a little tender? Besides, she wanted to give me the reward we finally agreed upon, and she seemed keen on doing so publicly. It would have been rude to not attend."

"Mmm...I suppose it might have been at that," Phlox admitted. "And I must say, your handling of the reward situation was rather clever. Settling for a ceremonial mask and requesting that the financial reward be distributed to the raiders' previous victims was quite charitable of you."

There had been a fleeting temptation to say yes to the reward—it had been a staggering amount, after all—but Malcolm had no regrets. "It would have felt unseemly to take a reward for doing my job, and I'm certain Starfleet would have frowned upon it anyhow. Since the Ka'ar were adamant about giving me _something_, the mask seemed a suitable compromise. It worked out for the best that they miscalculated how fast the _Heeba_ could travel while towing the raider's ship—the delay in their return gave me the chance to convince Vendar to forgo the money in favor of something symbolic."

"Yes, plus it gave the captains a chance to work out details of diplomatic relations and a cultural exchange between their peoples in lieu of the Ka'ar paying financial restitution to the crew, as well as allowed time to have the reception for Captain Vendar and her boarding party." He gave a teasing smirk. "Was she...pretty?"

"Doctor, I'm surprised at you," Reed feigned indignation. "I don't peek and tell."

The doors to Sickbay opened and Trip entered, adjusting the zipper of his duty uniform. "Dang, am I glad to be outta that monkey suit," he said. "An' even though I swung by your quarters to drop off that gorgeous mask of yours, I see I still managed ta beat the captain here."

"I believe he said he had to tend to Porthos before coming here," Phlox explained. "Once he learned about the Ka'ar beliefs regarding the intimacy of direct physical contact, he felt it best to confine the little fellow to quarters until our guests were gone. No telling how they might have interpreted the relationship between man and dog if they'd seen the captain scratching Porthos behind the ears."

Any observations on that subject were stymied by Archer's arrival. "So Doc, how's the patient?"

"He is grousing about being in Sickbay, tired and aching from overextending himself, and dismissive of alternative methods of treatment," Phlox answered. "In short, he's all but back to normal. I've just given him some pain medication and I'm hoping he'll get some sleep. If you could make your visit brief I would appreciate it." The doctor stepped away to give them some privacy.

"Don't mind him," Reed told them. "He's being a mother hen. I'll admit to being a little sore but I don't need a midmorning nap like some sort of preschooler."

"I dunno, Mal," Trip disagreed. "Ya looked a little wore out by the time Capt'n Vendar and her people left. A nap might not be tha worst thing in the world."

"He might be right, Malcolm," Archer agreed. "Hell, I feel like I could use one myself. The last few days have been more than a little rough...especially for you."

Malcolm pursed his lips thoughtfully, not liking to admit what a close call he'd had. "You'll get no argument there, sir."

"Well then," Jon said, "maybe we _should_ come back later. After all," he added with a smirk, "it's not like you're going anywhere."

"Don't remind me," Malcolm muttered. "Sir," he added reflexively. "Before you go, though, I do have a question." He paused before continuing—would mentioning that breakfast prompt the captain to schedule yet another one? He threw caution to the wind. "At breakfast the other day, before we were...interrupted...you were going to tell me how I could help with the sports program you had in mind. What did you want me to do?"

Exchanging a glance with Trip—who was having a damned hard time keeping a straight face—Jon stepped closer to the bed. "Well, we were thinking about forming...bowling teams," he deadpanned. After a few seconds watching the stunned look on Reed's face, Archer finally let the smile spread across his own. "We know, Malcolm. We know about _Strike Force_. Trip had some vids of some old tournaments, we got watching them the other night, and, well, you were on some of them."

"Yeah, an' fer someone who 'isn't much into sports', you were damned good, _Deadeye_," Trip chimed in. "You still got a 259 average?" Both men grinned as Malcolm fidgeted in the bed.

"I'm not sure, sir...it's been a while since I've bowled," he finally answered sheepishly.

"Well," Trip continued, slightly more serious now, "it's a good thing for us that their description of you as a stroker was as accurate as that nickname. Never seen anyone pick up and release anything as smoothly as you did that grenade." Resting his hands on the edge of the bed he leaned in close to Malcolm's face. "An' don't you _ever_ scare me like that again, or I'll smack you upside the head 'til your teeth shake loose." After a moment his smile returned and he stepped away from the bed.

"Tell you what," Archer said. "Once you're out of here we'll reschedule breakfast and see if bowling is something the crew might enjoy, or if some other sort of sports program would be better."

"With all due respect, sir, I wish you wouldn't," Reed replied. He paused to enjoy the confused looks on their faces before continuing. "Judging from how our _last_ two breakfasts have ended, I'm not entirely certain I'd _survive_ a third." After a pause all three men began laughing.

"I think we better get out of here," Jon finally said, "before Phlox thinks he has to chase us out. We'll check in on you later."

"Thank you, sir." Watching the doors close behind them, Malcolm gave a satisfied sigh and let himself relax.

Phlox approached him a minute or so later. "I'm going to be in my office for a while, working on some reports. Do you need anything before I go?"

Reed eyed the doctor thankfully. "I don't believe so...but thank you for asking. And...for everything else. Sorry if I gave you a bit of a scare."

The doctor shook his head. "It's part of the job...one of the more unpleasant parts, I admit. I would appreciate it if in the future you could refrain from cutting it quite so close, though."

"I'll do my best," Malcolm smiled back at him.

"I do have one question for you, though I'm not sure you can answer it. You started regaining consciousness shortly after coming out of surgery, and before calling out for the captain and Commander Tucker, you said something I couldn't make much sense of. What does 'damned stupid Yank' mean?"

Somehow Malcolm maintained an expression of innocence before answering a few seconds later. "I haven't the faintest idea...must've been out of my head."

With a noncommittal shrug Phlox seemed to agree. "Quite possible." Contemplating it another moment he smiled softly. "I'm sure you're right—between the drugs and the pain, you were hardly in a coherent state of mind. Now, if you need anything you be sure to call me."

"Of course." He waited until the doctor was well into his office before heaving a relieved sigh. Bloody hell, had he really said that _aloud_? Thank god the doctor hadn't asked while Trip and the captain had been here, otherwise the captain might very well have scheduled another breakfast to torture him with right then and there.


End file.
